


Love and Joy Come to You

by entirely_the_wrong_sort



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Wizarding Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:32:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entirely_the_wrong_sort/pseuds/entirely_the_wrong_sort
Summary: Yuletime 1979 at the Potter’s, and Remus gets caught up in yet another ‘tradition’ he’s never heard of.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustmouth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustmouth/gifts).



That year, Yule fell three days before Christmas, and with Peter’s birthday bang smack in the middle, it meant - practically - that their celebrations would just run on all week. Now, after a long day of preparing and cooking and unpacking and decorating, Remus and Peter sat at the kitchen table of the Potters’ new home, trying to catch up on their neglected Order reports surrounded by reams and scraps of paper, tinsel and wool. 

The warm, steamy air was filled with a wonderful potpourri. Fresh pine and cedar hung in boughs from the windows frames and cupboard doors; some smoky blend of Yuletide tea stewed beside them on the table; a cauldron of some sweet-smelling goldish liquid was simmering gently on the heavy stove that held the still fragrant remains of the roast Yuletide boar. It was their turn to keep an eye on the pot, and though neither of them had a clue what they were supposed to be keeping an eye on, they weren’t complaining; it was a welcome moment of peace in an otherwise hectic day. 

They sat idly chatting and comparing notes, when a shape suddenly burst through the doorway and a gust of air sent paper and glitter fluttering to the flagstone floor.   
Remus and Peter both jumped out of their skin and aimed their wands reflexively at the huge furry intruder that turned out to be Sirius. He was wearing some kind of bright white animal fur cloak decorated with what looked like bundles of sage and mistletoe.

“What the _hell_ are you suppose to be?” Peter exclaimed.

Sirius looked at him as though that was somehow a ridiculous question. “Uh, the bloodhound of bounty? Now put this on, Moony.” He drew a bundle of cloth from beneath the vastness of his cloak and threw it vaguely at Remus.

“What is it?” Remus asked, whipping it off his head. 

“Your Good Warlock costume.”

“Right,” Remus sighed when it was clear no further explanation was forthcoming. He unfolded it to reveal some kind of tatty, lurid robe. Peter leaned over and picked up what might be a pointed felt hat. “I’m not wearing this. It’s ridiculous.”

“Well, you can’t very well go mumming without a costume!”

“Going what-now?”

“Mumming. You know, good-hailing, Floo-dropping, guising, whatever you might call it,” he gestured at them whilst inspecting the aromatic cauldron enthusiastically.

Remus and Peter shared a look of utter bafflement. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re on about, Padfoot.”

Sirius tutted in frustration, unable to even comprehend their non-comprehension. “We Floo to other Wizarding families, perform the _Good Warlock of Ipswich_ and sing songs, and share the bayberry elixir -” he gestured to the simmering cauldron, “- to bring good health and prosperity to the household.”

“I swear to God, you’re making that up.”

“No, I think I’ve heard of that,” hummed Peter. “It sounds like that hoodening thing, where you go and scare the living daylights out of the kids and get drunk with the parents, right?”

“That’s not – it’s – well, that’s often a side effect, yes,” Sirius conceded with an eye-roll, “but it’s a long standing tradition!”

Remus wasn’t convinced. This was far from the first time Sirius tried to have him on with outlandish _Traditions_. There was no way anyone would want him prancing around their homes in whatever this monstrosity was he was holding. 

“Then why have I never heard of it? I spent two Christmases in the most magical, traditionalist institution in Britain and no one ever came _Floo-dropping_.”

Sirius just blinked at him once, shook his head in disbelief and headed back down the hall levitating the cauldron behind him. “It’s a boarding school, not a bloody market square. Honestly Moony, use your common sense.”

He looked at Peter, who handed him the hat and followed Sirius out of the room, snorting into his mug of tea as he went.

*

“Padfoot, there aren’t words to describe this thing.”

In the living room, still so sparsely furnished yet somehow sickeningly tinsel-trimmed, the gang were fiddling with more freakish costumery. They all turned to look at him as he stood awkwardly in the violently-patterned green robe. It was outrageously short, badly patched and worst of all, it _jingled_. But where were the bells? It jingled without bells!

“You look great!” James’ voice came from somewhere within a grotesque pig-like mask that Remus promptly filed away for his future night terrors.

He spotted the cheeky twinkle in Sirius’ eye as he checked him out, gaze lingering from his exposed bony calves and up to his humidity-frazzled mane trying to escape from his horrid hat. When their eyes met, the twinkle became a leer and he winked. Remus felt his cheeks heating up but regained his composure quick as a flash, being well-practised as he was. “He needs the beard though,” Sirius broke the eye-contact and nodded at Lily, who rolled her eyes and left Sirius and James to fuss over each other’s masks. 

“And what are _you_ supposed to be?” Remus asked James, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

“The nogtail of hardship,” James and Sirius chorused with identical esoteric tones.

“Obviously!” Lily chided him mockingly, as she went about affixing a wiry grey mass to his face. 

The swell of her belly was starting to show, even beneath her thick woolly jumper. It wouldn’t be long before heavy layers won’t be enough to hide it anymore. They hadn’t _officially_ announced the pregnancy yet, but Remus, Sirius and Peter knew as soon as the wedding got pushed forward by two months. Frankly, Remus hoped it would be soon; Merlin knows they could all do with a bit more happy news these days.

“Have you ever heard of this, Evans?”

“Nope. I reckon these two just come up with new ‘traditions’ every year.” The air quotations were distinctly audible. “It’s much easier to just run with it. Which actually sums up our whole relationship.”

Peter muttered agreement from the armchair beside them. “Even _I_ haven’t heard of half their crazy rules. Remember in Seventh year when Prongs made a bunch of First years into prefects and the prefects into their lackeys for a week?”

“Yes, Wormtail,” Remus deadpanned. “I remember it fondly.”

Lily snickered. “Hey, I tried to stop him, he did _not_ have my official endorsement for that.”

“Excuse me, you wandless heathens, lords-a-lacking is a centuries-old Wizarding tradition!” said James, drawing himself up proudly.

Peter spluttered in amiable indignation. “Oh, like when you said it was _traditional_ to fast for two days before Christmas, but apparently forgot to remind anyone else and it turned out you just wanted to see how long I’d last?”

“That was just funny, though,” grinned Sirius, nostalgic.

“I mean, technically, that _is_ a tradition,” James pointed out.

“I fainted twice.”

“Ooh, that reminds me,” James drew a small, slowly desiccating apple from his pocket, “everyone still got their Yule apples?”

“Yes!” came a harmony of groans and rustling as everyone brought out the month-old apples they’d been forced to carry at all times - or at least when James was around - for inspection. Remus had to agree with Lily that sometimes it was easier not to fight it.

After a minute, James seemed satisfied. “Good. A healthy apple means a healthy new year!”

Lily caught Remus and Peter’s eyes and gave a guilty grimace. “It went mouldy in my pocket. This is my third one,” she whispered.

“Didn’t you cast an Ever-last charm on it? We learnt that trick in Second year.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that allowed?”

Sirius appeared suddenly again, flicking the tinsel wreath of Lily’s head. His bloodhound mask wasn’t nightmarish like James’, in fact it was downright adorable - pure white with soft jowly cheeks and big downy ears. When and from where they had acquired these outfits was a mystery to Remus; they were certainly not lying around their home because there aren’t many places to hide in a four-room flat. And Sirius had never even passingly mentioned an interest in crafts. Wherever they came from, Remus suspected _his_ jingling devil-cloth of being significantly cheaper. 

“Evans, you’re distracting my Good Warlock.” Lily slapped Sirius lightly on the chest and stuck out her tongue at him with a chuckle. “Time’s a-wasting and there are homes that need a-hailing!”

Sirius grabbed Remus’ wrist and dragged him towards the green flames of the chimney. The fact that Remus had no clue in hell what his role involved didn’t seem to be an issue. Peter and Lily just stood there, smug as anything, twiddling their wands in their warm, sensible jumpers.

“Have fun, boys! Come on Peter, we’ve got work to do.” Lily conjured a plate of mince pies in front of them, winking.

“Whoa, wait a second!” Remus whined. “How come _they_ get to stay here?”

“Because someone has to keep my poor, wonderful wife company on Christmas Eve and she demanded it wasn’t me, because - and I quote: ‘the honeymoon’s over, Potter’. And of the two of you, Wormtail’s the worse actor.”

“But why can’t you come, Lily?”

Everyone stopped to look at Remus, nonplussed and horrified, as though Remus had just bitten the head off a kitten. 

After the longest pause of his life, Sirius put a gentle hand on his shoulder and spoke slowly, as if to a toddler. “Are you joking? Witches can’t leave the home on Yuletide, it’s bad luck!”

“Okay, that one’s just downright myso –”

“Are you even a wizard? How do you not know that?”

“Honestly! Even _I_ know that one, Remus,” piped Lily, bemused.

Without further ado, Remus just sighed and stepped resignedly into the fireplace, awaiting an inevitable evening of humiliation and confusion. It was a tight squeeze with the three of them, all their apparel, and a whole cauldron of bayberry elixir.

“First stop, the Boneses!”

*

By the end of the night, Remus was convinced of two things: that the _Good Warlock of Ipswich_ was entirely plotless, and that he should seriously consider a career in theatre after his outstanding performance as the titular character. 

But the problem with the whole idea of toasting a magically potent brew with every family you visit, is that you end up pretty sloshed by about house number four, so it was probably a good thing they weren’t dropping in on strangers. Remus doubted that Mr and Mrs Stranger would have appreciated an obnoxious performance of a nonsensical play followed by slurred and raucous carol-singing. Luckily, Remus seemed to be the only person in any given room that had no idea what was happening; those households without children even seemed to encourage their bizarre behaviour, and the fireplace got more and more crowded as their rowdy acting troupe expanded.

Another problem with increasing blood alcohol levels is _de_ creasing self-control, and eight homes later, Sirius could barely keep his hands off Remus. This was not an inherently bad thing, in fact, it was downright pleasant, but Remus was not a fan of public displays of affection - he could barely even stand to be around James and Lily on most days without developing a chronic case of ‘ceiling fascination’.

Several times Sirius tried to kiss him whilst they swayed and sang, and the pantomime brawling wasn’t helping either. When Sirius had him pinned to the Longbottom’s floor, pretending to tear the Good Warlock’s throat out, Remus came away with a deep purple bruise that Gideon Prewett so tactfully pointed out for everyone. It was at that point that Remus decided they should call it a night, bid everyone adieu and drunkenly Floo to their humble flat.

*

It was almost noon by the time Remus joined Sirius in the living-room, head was throbbing with the worst hangover of his life. He was pretty certain that if the Ministry got a hold of that elixir’s recipe, it’d be banned under at least four statutes he could think of. The sight of Sirius looking as awful as he felt was something of a tonic though. He was wrapped in Remus’ dressing gown, lounging on the sofa and nursing a giant cup of coffee, and he smiled weakly at Remus as he came over to join him, drawing his legs into Remus’ lap and handing him the mug.

“Last night went well,” croaked Sirius. Remus just blinked at him, sardonically. “No, you were jolly good to say you’ve never seen a mumming before.”

“Um, thank you?”

“How _is_ that by the way? Your father’s a pureblood yet you didn’t even know witches couldn’t leave the house? That superstition’s older than Merlin’s grandmother.”

Remus shrugged. “Well, as you know, my mum was Muggle and we lived in a Muggle community, so the Magical world was never all that relevant until I started Hogwarts.” He pondered for a moment and   
thought back on his childhood Christmases: quiet and small and laid-back - just like his family in fact. “We weren’t a big Holidays family anyway. Mum made us go to midnight mass and we had a tree, but… Besides, every year since she died, Dad hasn’t felt much like celebrating anything.”

“I can understand that,” Sirius said quietly with a gentle nod. He looked as though he was deep in dark thoughts, so Remus prodded his feet. Sirius sighed and swept a hand through his unwashed, dishevelled hair. “Can I tell you something? Something I haven’t told you before?”

“Of course, Sirius,” he replied emphatically, “you can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I haven’t really felt much like celebrating Christmas this year either. This time of year was always Regulus’ favourite.” 

He closed his eyes and a tiny sad smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It had never been a secret how much Sirius missed his brother all throughout school. But this was the first time he had mentioned his brother’s name in three months; ever since Sirius first heard the news that Regulus was assumed dead, he had barely said a word on it. Of course, Remus thought, that explained a lot about his recent behaviour. 

“He loved wintertime. And all the stupid traditions of Christmas… the good-will of it all, the mummers, spending time with the family - we didn’t do quality time all that often growing up.” He paused to clear his throat and blink rapidly. “I regret the last thing I said to him. And that was back in March. Even though we didn’t really speak all year, just knowing he’s not around to… It just – it feels wrong. Does that make any sense?”

“It about the only thing that’s made sense all year.”

Sirius gave him a grateful smile and clambered across the sofa to settle into Remus’ side. They slotted together with ease, limbs entwined, savouring their security in each other.

“Well, there is one good thing to come out of this awful year.”

“The burgeoning Potter dynasty?” chirped Sirius, brightly.

“Uh, I was going to say this moment right here, but yours is good too.” Although, as far as Remus was concerned, one and a half times more Potters seemed more like a plague than a dynasty.

Sirius suddenly perked up, a tell-tale sign of a forming idea. He jumped from the sofa much too spryly for someone claiming to be as hungover as he was and tugged Remus up. “I know one more tradition we can do. Come on.” 

“Oh, God, why!”

They got dressed and layered up, but he wouldn’t tell Remus what it was all for until Sirius had apparated them to a seemingly random patch of woodland. He started examining the trees around them.  
“Why on earth –?”

“It’s for a Yule log.”

“Oh, I actually know that one. You burn it in the first fire of Christmas day.”

“We have to decorate it, too,” Sirius enthused, kicking the roots of a skinny ash tree. “We can write down our hopes for the future and if the log still burns through to New Year’s day, then our wishes will come true that year.”

“I can get behind this tradition.”

“Yep, this one looks good, what d’you think?”

Remus knocked ceremoniously on the trunk and nodded his approval. Together, they felled the small tree, split it down into logs, and dried them ready for use. By the time the sun began to set, they had amassed a fairly impressive stack of firewood. Remus vanished all but their chosen Yule log into storage and they apparated home. 

Taking Sirius’ lead entirely with regards to _how_ it needed decorating, they trimmed the stump with holly, mistletoe and pine, painted runes with a cinnamon-garlic paste, and sprinkled it with flour. Frankly, Remus wasn’t impressed with the finished product. It smelled miasmic and looked more like a victim of some kitchen disaster. But this tradition wasn’t about aesthetics, it was about hope. 

On strips of paper, they wrote wishes for everything: political stability, less death, healthy babies, lasting love, new socks, good weather... They wrote blessings for the protection of friends, and dedications to absent family. They wrote simply each others’ names.

Then they left to visit the Potters again to pick up the good spirit where they left off the night before.

On Christmas morning, they lit the log and they laughed and kissed and danced to the Christmas hits crackling on the wireless as it burned, warm and merry and odd-smelling. It burned all the way into the New Year, and when the fire finally died, a seedling sprouted from the ashes.


End file.
